“Well, I was only three years old when it happened, but from what I was told by my family, it didn’t really affect the humans much. It was a quiet exchange of power, a few renamed buildings since the Blood Ravens prefer more Italian names as opposed to the French influence of the Kingdom of NocturnalShadows. That’s why the enthralled are called the Shadow Court—because the previous ruling family, the Devereaux, were the Shadow Kings.” There are no more Shadow Kings.
A few people fidget nervously as they process what I said. It was more than they were prepared for: too gory, too intense. Too much. It was a sugar-coated version of the truth. A fairy-tale to convince outsiders they were safe during their stay here.
This isn’t a horror movie or a circus performance.
This is our life.
Walking into the Velvet Tomb staff entrance on Saturday evening, as the sun turns to long shadows across the French Quarter, I take a deep breath to slow my heart. No matter how many times I cross this threshold, I still break out in a nervous sweat and my heart rate picks up. The Velvet Tomb is The City of Blood’s foremost human-vamp bar and brothel, catering to whatever you want in the backrooms. Make no mistake—despite the humans usually wandering around, taking in the deep red velvet walls, the raised stages, the shiny black table tops, and the cherry wood floors stained a dark burgundy—this is the domain of the night dwellers.
There is a reason for the moody, almost romantic, decor. It’s set dressing, really. The dim lighting hides the unsettling otherworldliness of the vamps. The almost black floors are dark to hide drips, splashes, and spills of any liquids. The corners are shadowy to camouflage anyone lingering, watching, or trying to find a moment’s privacy.
Thick black velvet curtains hang floor to ceiling around theroom, absorbing what little light there will be and creating pockets of quiet along the walls. The stage runs almost the entire length of the back of the room, and has poles for dancers and a piano in one corner. It’s a multipurpose area depending on what we have planned for the night. The entire right side of the room is devoted to the long bar where we serve whatever the patrons might be looking for. Blood of all types fills the blood warmers—some drinkers have preferences, others don’t care much.
We cater to all things at the Velvet Tomb.
Now, an hour before opening time, the lights are high and bright. I can see everything that's usually hidden in the dark. I clean up missed spills from last night; blood, alcohol, body fluids. I check that the bar is stocked with everyone’s favorites and turn the warmers on for anyone who doesn’t want to pay to bite or try and coax a human into a live donation. There are rules, of course, regarding public displays of feeding. On the street, anyone anywhere is in danger of a bite, but inside, at bars and restaurants, biting is consensual. If vamps could feed on anyone at any time, we would not have the thriving tourist industry we have. Vampires don’t need to bite, but they often prefer the hunt.
I wander from themed room to themed room and check they are ready for the night. The castle with its tapestries and old world charm, standard hotel style rooms with giant comfortable beds, a bondage room with restraints and furniture made specifically for those activities, and a log cabin are some of the rooms that line the hallway of the brothel part of the building. Toys, tools, and medical supplies are stocked.
The dungeon room is my least favorite and often the messiest to clean at the end of the night. The vamps who book the dungeon are not here for sex and pleasure—they are here for torture and blood. The dark stone block wall, the concretefloor with its floor drain, the shackles, whips, chains, and blood-letting tools spread out on a stone table against the wall. No windows to bring in any moon light and only a single set of torches by the door. I suspect this reminds the night stalkers of earlier days when their victims didn’t come to them so willingly.
A place built for suffering.
My favorite room is the sun room. It’s a beautiful room with a large, four-poster canopy bed and glass surround with artificial sunlight streaming through. The soft bedding grants the human experience. If I close my eyes, I can almost believe it’s real, which is the appeal. We all want to feel real. It looks like a greenhouse, lots of beautiful plants, and light colored rugs cover the pale wood floors. No tools of torture. This room is almost always reserved by a vampire couple or a human-vamp couple who want to pretend for a few hours that they can lie in the sun. Whatever they want, we can provide in these rooms. We also provide the humans to go with them. The humans are willing and paid incredibly well for their services.
“Elina, let me get a Long Island iced tea?”
“Bartender, blood. Warm.”
“Excuse me, can I get a chardonnay and a whiskey on the rocks?”
It’s only 4 hours into an almost 12 hour shift and I’m already overwhelmed, overworked, and so tired. Sarah usually works alongside me at the bar but she is still out following her attack on her way home from work last week. Which is exactly why I pay a car service everyday. You’ll only catch me on thestreets after dark if I’m dead—or undead. I’m by myself tonight at the bar and we areslammed. Humans and vampires alike line the bar, fill up the bar stools, and crowd into every available space. Music pumps through the speakers creating a club-like atmosphere, and girls, guys, vamps, and humans dance in the crowd and take turns on the stage.
Saturdays are a bit of a free-for-all in the Velvet Tomb, no scheduled dancers or entertainment, only a DJ and a big crowd. All the back rooms are booked solid until sunrise and the men and women for hire are too. It's going to be a long night.
“Hey Elina, can you pour us a couple shots of tequila?” Samantha says as she bursts through the bar door. The petite blond stands with Lilly, a raven haired girl from my neighborhood. They are both stunning in their skimpy lingerie outfits. “Me and Lilly got a client in the castle in 20 minutes and we need a little boost.”
“Sure thing, babes. Can you watch the bar for a few minutes so I can take a break?” I ask in my sweetest Louisiana drawl as I pour 2 double shots and ring them in as comps.
One long dimly lit hallway later, I push open the heavy door to the restroom. Gazing at myself in the long mirror, I look over, what I consider, my uniform. Tight black leather skirt over thigh high stockings, a matching leather corset with scarlet beads making it look as though blood is dripping down the front, and tall black boots with a thick heel. My tits overflow the top just enough to create tip-worthy cleavage but not enough to be truly indecent, which would make it appear I am on the menu. And finally a ruby studded choker rings my throat. While I fix my skirt over my ass, the rhythmic thumping that I’ve heard from the closed stall door increases to, what I assume is, the climax, with a muffled cry and a faint growl. What seems like seconds later, a waitress, Amelie,and a tall vampire emerge from the stall. Amelie makes eye contact with me in the mirror and has the decency to flush a bright pink even as she wipes the drips of blood making their way down the side of her neck. Her unnaturally red hair is messy, as thoughsomeonehad their hands in it. The vampire that follows her is a few inches over six foot and, honestly, kind of huge. His chest is broad and his neck thick. He looks like he would be a body-builder gym guy in another life. Her friend does not spare me much more than a grey eyed glance as he leaves the bathroom, followed closely by Amelie.
“Get to work!” I yell after her which is followed by a giggle.
Walking back out to the bar, I pass the stage and relieve Lilly and Sam of their work behind the counter, sending them on their way to their client. I clear out some of the bar orders and start restocking. I feel a prickle on the back of my neck and look around before making eye contact with the same man from the bathroom, tucked into the corner of the bar, no drink in hand. Tall even when sitting, wavy black hair swept across his brow and dark grey eyes, he watches me curiously. He looks vaguely familiar, though I can’t place why. Despite knowing he just fucked my friend in the bathroom, being trapped under his gaze makes me blush and I feel the pink tinge coloring my cheeks.Fucking vampires.I look away, annoyed with myself. Wandering over, bar towel in hand, I approach him with a questioning lift of my brow.
“Hey, what can I get you?”
“Red wine. Something decent, if you even have that here,” is his reply, his voice Italian accented and full of disinterest. One of the old ones then, if he has an accent. The younger blood-drinkers and the newly turned are Americans—or they were. Now they are simplySanguine Nocturnus.Only the Malvani family and their sirelings are Blood Ravens though; the royalty and the law. Turning away, I make my way over tothe wine cooler, don’t find what I’m looking for, and push open the door to the wine cellar. Grabbing a bottle of 12 year old nebbiolo red,I pull the cork and pour it into the aerator before transferring it to a glass.
Stupid, fancy, demanding vampire.
“Yes, we have something decent here,” I retort, sliding the glass to the vamp. “Anything else? Something warmer?”
“No,” comes his curt reply and he drops a $100 on the counter before getting up and walking away, glass in hand.No problem, Dracula.I laugh to myself at my own joke. Slipping his huge tip into the jar, after I ring in his drink, I decide it’s worth the broody presence for the extra cash.
I really needed more than a few hours of sleep this morning, I’m practically dead on my feet. Thank fuck it’s well after midnight and the human crowd is slowing down—they don’t tend to be able to keep up all night partying like the vamps do.
The sudden terrified scream of a woman cuts through the noise in the room, bringing everyone to a hush. The music ends abruptly. Snapping my head in the direction of the scream—a shadowed corner near the stage—I squint to try and see something.
